


Prey

by ancalime8301



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-12
Updated: 2003-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo in Cirith Ungol, at the hands of the orcs. Rated for darkness and hobbit misery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

A rough glove grasped a fistful of dirty curls and yanked back, cruelly uprooting some hair and exposing the grimy face of the half-conscious creature. He felt every blow of their abuse, each of his nerves on fire and throbbing in agony. This last motion intensified the excruciating pain into a white-hot flare of anguish as the wound again cracked open, seeping its unnatural ichor onto his crusted skin and into his hair. The torment finally drove him back into that dark corner of escape where those sharp knives, gleaming eyes, and leering faces could no longer reach him, and he sagged with the relief of it.

"Oh, no ye don'," snarled the owner of the hand still grasping the creature's head, holding it still as the drink was poured into the slack mouth. He recognized the acrid liquid as it brought him back groaning; his throat closed against the foul intrusion and he choked, much of the liquor instead streaming over his chin, trailing across his cheek, and a bit even trickling into his ear. He gagged on the remainder as he tried to draw a gasping breath and coughed as some went into his lungs.

The next thing he was aware of was a stinging backhanded slap -for what he did not know- which made his cheek go numb and mixed the coppery taste of his blood with that of the bitter brew. He weakly moved his bound hands up to shield his face, only to have them abruptly jerked back down by the rope threaded through his bonds for that very purpose, and he bit back a cry as his shoulder protested the dislocating movement. He longed to lash out, escape from his captors, but he could not. The gaping void within him relentlessly sapped all strength from his limbs, restraining him just as effectively as the thick ropes chafing his wrists and ankles. 'I have failed... It is gone...' All he could do was despair. He had doomed the world to darkness and shadow.

The 'questioning' dragged on and on, though very few questions were asked; most of the time was devoted to threats and detailed descriptions of gruesome tortures, all of which were in store for him, if their gleeful words to be believed. His head was spinning, every part of his body ached, and he grew cold as his skin absorbed the damp chill of the floor he'd been dumped upon. All the world narrowed to a red glow in which there were so many gloating faces, leering eyes, knives brandished forth and trailed across his skin for emphasis, and that burning drink forced upon him whenever he tried to take refuge in the dark corner of his mind. He was trapped, imprisoned there at their mercy.

Finally they grew weary of their play and abandoned him, though not before kicking him again for good measure and dumping him along one wall atop a heap of rancid rags. Once he heard the trapdoor slam shut, he relaxed and closed his eyes in relief.

But soon he realized that not all torments came from without. His mind swirled dizzily with self-accusations and crushing guilt even as his very being screamed for that which had been taken from him. He curled into a small huddle upon the rags, both for warmth and in a futile attempt to halt the emotions striking him from every side. Overwhelmed, he again retreated into that one corner he could still call his own, his self, and mercifully there was nothing to bar him from that semblance of peace.

Falling into darkness, he moaned hoarsely, "Sam... help me..."

 

* * *

 

A voice.

From somewhere, somehow, a familiar voice cracked a few small chinks in the swirling walls of darkness and despair that hemmed him in on all sides, giving him a few glimpses of light and hope, so out of place that he immediately knew it had to be a dream. But all his dreams before were chasms of foulness and fear, and even now he felt himself being dragged back into the void. He clung to this voice, trying to listen as long as he could, for he realized the fantasy would be fleeting and he would again be left at the mercy of his demons.

The voice was faint, barely sinking into his inhibited senses, and the words were unintelligible, but he could tell it was singing. The timid, plaintive notes were sorrowful but determined, from them dangling bits of a dying hope, and he vacantly wondered what made the voice so sad. When the voice repeated a phrase from before, he tried to echo it. A dream this may be, but he would absorb it as much as possible, to hold and draw from when the darkness again descended.

The voice abruptly cut off and a discordant, grating voice took its place, yelling from somewhere below him. He curled protectively into himself, recognizing the tone of the angry threats though the words were meaningless. He didn't move or speak, immediately afraid of the results if he did. But his care was fruitless, for he then heard the scraping and thumping that always preceded the appearance of the dreaded ones.

He did not see it approach -his arms were still covering his face, as both a shelter and so he would not have to visually acknowledge his predicament- but heard its growling snarl. He sensed movement, then felt the kiss of liquid fire tear his side, lingering for long moments as it gloried in liquor drawn forth from him before slithering away with a snap. Time ceased its passage then as he reeled from the unexpected blow until familiar arms embraced him and drove away all thoughts of pain and fear.

But the void of despair returned and threatened to consume him again as he expressed his loss to his companion. "They've taken everything. Everything!"

What happened next made him wonder if he deserved to be rescued from this foul pit. For not only did he deeply hurt his friend by seeing him as he was not, he regained possession of the Thing that promised to do what his captors could not.

They could do naught more than wound his body, which he could flee by an escape to that dark corner still his. It could do more, so much more, Its lust and thirst not satisfied until his very being was burned away and cast aside like so much chaff, to blow away in the wind. There is no escape from that great wheel of fire.


End file.
